


Home Again

by LadySnowFo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cancer, Caretaker Sherlock, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Great Romance, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Poor John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sick Character, Sick John, True Love, not THAT kind of happy ending, otp, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8500435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySnowFo/pseuds/LadySnowFo
Summary: Sherlock was standing too close to him. Sherlock was staring at him. Sherlock was... flirting with him? And John, being completely honest, well, he loved it.





	1. "It's treatable"

John had come to Baker Street with news. Horrible news. Sherlock was finding it hard not to completely shut down. John would need to undergo treatment for a type of leukemia. They were still in the investigation phase to determine what type exactly, but they were fairly certain it was treatable. Sherlock tried to keep himself focused. He knew if he let the fear surface, he couldn’t easily put it back. He would become weak and afraid, and he would be of absolutely no use to John. ‘John is _not_ going to die. It’s  _treatable_.’, he repeated to himself. These words helped. Yes, and maybe they would keep the sickening, sinking feeling of dread from consuming him.

John said he was to be admitted tomorrow for blood transfusion and more testing. He was still standing in the middle of the room, awaiting Sherlock's response. 'I’m fine, Sherlock, really. I can handle some side effects. It’s just another battle, yeah?’ John smiled a bit. ‘I’m a little tired, is all.’ Sherlock was still frozen in his chair, two fingers partially covering his lips, staring at the fireplace with a look of thoughtful panic in his eyes. John let him process things. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock rose and began pacing from the window to his chair, and back. His thinking route. ‘It's too much. The divorce. Mary and Violet only just moved out. Now this.' 'When it rains, it pours, I guess. It  _is_  London.’, John smiled again. Sherlock knew John was trying to put him at ease, but it was pointless. He needed information.

‘You’re moving back in immediately.’, demanded Sherlock. ‘My lease isn’t up yet, Sherlock.’ A sharp side-glance from Sherlock, who was now sitting in front of his laptop, typing furiously. ‘Irrelevant. The decision has been made.’ John gave a small frustrated smile. There was no arguing with Sherlock when he got like this. Truth be told, John was relieved. He knew Sherlock would have him back anytime, but he felt weak asking. Since Mary and their one-year old had moved out a few weeks ago, his flat felt empty, lonely. He missed Violet. He was glad they were in the countryside, safer now from the many enemies both Mary and John had acquired in London. But the divorce had taken a lot out of him, and now he just felt alone. He had been spending as much time at the clinic as possible, to avoid going home. 'You'll not be alone.’ said Sherlock, studying his laptop screen intently. John’s face was startled, confused. Was Sherlock reading his mind? 

John sat down in his old, familiar chair. It felt so good. Better than anything had felt for months. He could rest properly, here, in his chair, in his home. ‘You won’t get tired of my lying about sick, then?’, he asked playfully. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, John.’, Sherlock snapped. He paused, and continued, gentler, ‘You belong here, sick or healthy.' John smiled. A warm feeling started from his head, and traveled through his body. Even though these past few weeks had been horrible, he thought it might be happiness. Yes it was, he was sure of it. He was happy to be home.


	2. The good patient

John lay in the hospital bed, feeling groggy from anesthesia. His thigh feeling sore from the bone marrow biopsy just performed. His mouth was incredibly dry. He wondered when someone would come by, and offer ice, or water. He eyed the “CALL NURSE" button, and thought better of it. It felt odd, being the patient. It had always been this way for John. Being a doctor, he knew too much. He couldn’t relax. He was thinking ahead, constantly, to the next step. Cancer was not his forte, but he was determined to learn as much as possible, so he could make proper decisions about his care. And he refused to be the needy patient. He wanted to get through this with as much dignity as possible. He took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

His head lolled to the left and saw Sherlock, slouched down in a chair with feet and arms crossed, sleeping. John thought back to last night, when he had fallen asleep in his chair at Baker Street, in the same position as Sherlock. While he was sleeping, Sherlock had gone to John’s flat to collect what he would need for a few days. He came back, and helped John to the sofa. John had given Sherlock a sleepy half-smile. ‘Taking care of me, are you?’, he mumbled, before falling back asleep. 

Sherlock didn't get much sleep normally. But he had been utterly exhausted by the time he sat in that hospital chair. He had stayed up all night, researching different types of leukemia, cross-referencing articles for truths among theories, looking for the best treatments and medicines available, and trying to keep his anxiety in check, while John slept near him on the sofa. He chastised himself. ‘I’ll be of no use at all if I can’t _keep calm_!’ As the night wore on, he found himself staring at John, trying not to imagine life without his best friend. 

This morning, Sherlock had accompanied John to the hospital, and stayed by his side every possible moment. When Dr. Ewing finally came into the room for the biopsy, John told Sherlock he could leave. ‘If you want to, Sherlock, you don’t have to stay through all this.’ Sherlock looked at John, tightened his lips into a thin smile, and moved a step closer to the hospital bed, 'What? And miss all the fun?’ John gave him an eye roll and chuckled.

A very groggy John now lay there, watching a very sleeping Sherlock. This remarkable man, whom he had once called a machine. 'Look how he cares for me, indeed.', he thought. Yes, Sherlock had vowed to always be there for him. But in these particular circumstances, John was able to clearly see Sherlock’s devotion. 'What did I ever do to deserve the attention of such an extraordinary creature?', he thought, 'Sherlock doesn't tend to people this way.' John felt his mind start to wander, and he drifted off. 

 


	3. The bloody tea

John woke and found himself in his chair, back at Baker Street. 'What?!' he thought, opening his eyes wider, pulling his head back slightly. He felt fine, no pain, and not tired at all. And, for once in several months, he was absolutely starving. Sherlock came in from the kitchen, 'Well, good morning, Doctor.', with a side smile. 'Sherlock? How did we get back to the flat? What happened at the hospital?' Sherlock blinked at him, and raised an eyebrow. 'You must've had another nightmare. Do try to relax. I'll put the kettle on. And don't give me that look, sometimes I do put the kettle on!' Sherlock leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. With a wink and a click, he headed back toward the kitchen. 

John was completely stunned. His heart was racing. He looked up, sideways, mouth slightly open, face contorting. Confusion flooded his thoughts, 'What the bloody hell is going on here?!' As he began trying to piece together memories, Sherlock appeared with their cups. John closed his mouth quickly, and took the tea. It was actually quite good. Sherlock sat in his chair across from John, and proceeded to ramble on about a possible case involving three dead shopkeeps, and what he knew so far from Lestrade's urgent text. John hardly heard any of it.

'He KISSED me. On the mouth! Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Kissed ME. Like it was completely bloody normal! What the hell?! And... and...' John carried on with internal questioning while Sherlock was, well, being Sherlock. John decided he might need something stronger than tea. He went to the kitchen, quickly found the scotch he had hidden in the cupboard, and poured a healthy four fingers. He looked down as he would take a drink, and the scotch had turned to what looked like blood. Dark, red, thick. He stopped just short of his lips, 'What?' and turned to look at Sherlock. But Sherlock was no longer Sherlock. It was Mary. She was dressed as Sherlock, and talking about the case as though she were Sherlock. Worst of all, she was drinking the bloody tea. Her lips were stained a bright red. 'Mary?' he asked, completely bewildered, and he felt someone grab his arm. 

'John?', he heard Sherlock's voice clearly. John's eyes flew open to reveal the hospital room, and Sherlock next to his bed, shaking his arm. Sherlock’s face came into focus. 'John, I think you were having a nightmare.' 


	4. The hardest part

The confirmed diagnosis was CML, Dr. Ewing explained, which was a type of leukemia, but the prognosis was somewhat good. There were several new drugs available. Some patients were still living after 15 years of taking an oral chemo tablet, and there were hardly any side effects. John was relieved. Sherlock hadn't reacted well. _'Fifteen BLOODY years_?!', he roared at the doctor. John turned and stared at Sherlock, open-mouthed. Sherlock got up and began pacing. Thankfully, Dr. Ewing was quite understanding, and did his best to explain that John could live longer, but this is the data that is currently available from various studies. 'We have every right to be optimistic, Dr. Watson. Don't we, Mr. Holmes?' Sherlock nodded, distractedly, now standing near the window.

Sherlock had learned about different types of leukemia the previous night, and this prognosis was actually far better than he had feared. Still, when faced with the reality of it all, he was angry. While John asked questions about the medication, and what his daily life would be like, Sherlock came and sat in his chair by the bed, and stared across the room, in a daze, occasionally nodding in agreement. John thanked Dr. Ewing, and asked if he could have some water. 'Sure, I'll send in your nurse.' The door closed with a click, and the room was silent. 

'Sherlock?' John looked at his best friend. 'Sherlock, talk to me please.' 'What would you like me to say, John?', he said quietly, still in a daze. 'I dunno, _anything_?', John pleaded. Sherlock turned to face him. 'I... I don't know what to say, John. Fifteen years? We’ve got to find a solution.' John gave him a half smile, 'Sherlock, we have a solution, and it's the best medicine they’ve got. You heard Ewing. I could live longer than fifteen, but that's what they know for now. Christ, he said I could lead a somewhat normal life in the meantime!' 

Sherlock was looking down, and wringing his hands nervously. After a long pause, he finally looked up, his mouth slightly open and moving, but no words coming out. His eyes were watery. John suddenly felt sick. Was Sherlock crying? 'Hey, _hey_ , come on now, it's gonna be alright.', he soothed. He took Sherlock's right hand, and held it firmly between his own hands. He patted it reassuringly. Sherlock bent down and lay his forehead on their hands. After a while, he turned to face away from the bed, his cheek now resting on John’s hand. 'What now, then?', he sulked. John gave a ragged sigh. 'We live life, for as long as I've got.' 


	5. Prison break

John felt better than he had in weeks. The transfusion helped him to feel somewhat human again. He was ready to be discharged soon, and he couldn't wait. He wanted to sit in his chair, lay in his own bed. He wasn't uncomfortable in a hospital setting, of course, but he was uncomfortable as the patient. 'Ahh Dr. Watson!' cried Dr. Ewing, entering the room with an armful of papers, and a big smile. 'You look ready to make a prison break!', he winked at John. John smiled, 'Sure, I'm ready to go.' Sherlock entered the room. He had a handful of papers, and a small bag. "Mr. Holmes has copies of your discharge paperwork, and your medicines.", explained Dr. Ewing. 'Do you have any questions?' 'Yes, um, when can I have a scotch?', John asked playfully. Both Sherlock and Dr. Ewing furrowed their brows. 'I _know_ , I know.', he chuckled.  
  
John was advised not to return to work at the clinic for at least a week. He knew he wouldn't be able to last more than a week without working. One thing he and Sherlock had in common: the need for constant mental stimulation. But he intended to make the most of relaxing in the meantime. He would sit in his chair, read the paper, watch crap telly, eat takeaway, and take naps. He would fully enjoy being back at Baker Street.

The nurse insisted on a wheelchair to help John reach the cab, and John kindly informed her that hell would freeze over first. Of course, he went too fast and became dizzy halfway out. He leaned against the wall a moment, head down, eyes closed. When he looked up, Sherlock had his arm out, waiting for him. 'Come, John, let's go home.'  
  
In the cab, John felt like he'd indeed broken out of a prison. The fresh air, well, as fresh as it could be in London, was fantastic. Sherlock was quiet. 'You alright?', John asked softly. 'I'm quite alright, John. I should be the one asking you.' 'I'm fine! I feel better than I have in weeks, I swear. Have any cases lined up?' 'Cases can wait.', Sherlock replied sternly. This was another one of those moments. Sherlock Holmes: Stubborn Arse.

John pursed his lips thoughtfully, as Sherlock stared out the window. While Sherlock may seem pushy and controlling from the outside, John knew it was his way of caring. And he cared for John unconditionally, it seemed. John closed his eyes, and leaned his head back a while. It was an amazing thing, to have someone who cared for him that way. No one ever had. His entire life had been relationships filled with ultimatums, rules, and what-ifs. With Sherlock, he knew it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Even after the hell they had been through. He thought back to when they first met. It had been an immediate and, well, unconditional bond, from that very moment. It was something so incredibly special, everyone around them could see it. It was almost as if they had always known each other. John opened his eyes. 'A bit deep for a cab ride.', he mumbled.  
  
The cab pulled up just outside 221B. Sherlock paid the driver while John stood on the sidewalk, taking it all in. He was thankful in that moment. His prognosis was good, he was feeling better, he was home. Sherlock came and stood next to him, with his arm out again. And, he had Sherlock.


	6. Mother hen

'Oh! My boys!!', Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, as they came through the door. 'I've got everything tidied, the kettle on, and scones waiting for you upstairs.' She smiled and added, wagging her finger, “But I’m _not_ your housekeeper!’ John smiled warmly, and she embraced him gently. John was happy to see a half-smile on Sherlock's face as well. 'Once you've had your rest, I want all the details, John.', she said, looking him in the eye. 'Sure.', he nodded, taking Sherlock by the arm. The stairs were a challenge, but they went slowly, taking breaks when John felt dizzy.  
  
Mrs. Hudson had done a fine job. John slowly took off his coat and shoes. Sherlock went to his room and shut the door. John sighed loudly, 'Ahh, so glad to be out of that _bloody_  hospital!' and plopped himself down in his chair. He winced in pain. Maybe no plopping just yet. His thigh was still sore. He leaned forward and poured some tea. He bit into one of Mrs. Hudson's scones. It tasted like heaven. God, it was good to have an appetite again. John took the newspaper from his side table, and began reading. He felt relaxed, at peace. ' _This_ is how you heal.'  
  
'You'll be staying in my room.', Sherlock announced, as he poured himself tea. 'Sherlock, it's fine!', John protested. But Sherlock wasn't having it. 'No, John. You'll not be constantly climbing stairs when your instructions are to rest. I hardly sleep anyway. The couch is fine.' He raised an eyebrow, 'And I insist.' Sherlock sat in his chair, and began to drink his tea. John smiled at him, amused. 'What is it?', asked Sherlock. 'Nothing. You're just very 'mother hen' lately.', John said, with a chuckle. Sherlock was very serious. 'Your health is no laughing matter, John.' After several seconds of silence, John started giggling. He tried to hold it in, but there was no stopping it. Sherlock slowly broke into a reluctant smile, and eventually began giggling too. It felt good, the two of them smiling and laughing. John wiped a tear, cleared his throat, picked up his paper and began reading again. He couldn't help but grin.

A few hours later, John heard Sherlock's text notification. He saw the detective's face light up. 'Lestrade?', John asked casually. But he knew. Sherlock sprung into action, putting on his shoes and coat. John smiled. This was exactly what Sherlock needed. He seemed almost happy. Sherlock-happy. And this made John happy. Sherlock turned to walk out the door, but suddenly caught himself. 'Jesus, I was just going to leave. I can't _leave_.' He looked guilty. 'You can, and you will. I'm fine! Go on now!', John urged him. After a few moments of contemplation, 'If you're sure?', John was nodding at him, 'Alright, then I'll be back in an hour.'


	7. Brilliant

To John's surprise, Sherlock was back in less than an hour. He complained about the ease with which he had solved the murder. 'I told Lestrade unless it's a solid eight, don't bother texting me. It's insulting. I'm there to assist in unusual circumstances, not pick up slack for his incompetent team.' Even though Sherlock seemed put out, John knew he had enjoyed it. Solving the puzzle, shoving the missed details in Anderson and Donovan's faces, the dramatics of it all. John was starving. 'I could order takeaway.' Sherlock nodded once in agreement, and disappeared into the bathroom for a shower.

It was to be Chinese takeaway and _quality_ telly tonight. The movie was For Your Eyes Only. John enjoyed Bond films, and Sherlock tolerated them. Sherlock was mostly quiet, except the occasional dismissing huff or condescending 'Oh God.' during the parts everyone normally thinks are impressive. John laughed each time. Sherlock has always secretly enjoyed making John laugh. It was one of his favorite things. John was often amused by his obnoxiousness. Likewise, Sherlock was often amused when John would lose his patience. Sherlock lost his focus on the film, thinking about this phenomenon. Qualities that others would find to be abhorrent or annoying about them, they found to be tolerable and often amusing about each other. They found themselves laughing in inappropriate circumstances more times than could be counted. They were clearly not in their right minds. But it worked. It worked so well.

As the movie was ending, John got up to take the plates to the kitchen declaring, 'Bond is brilliant.' Sherlock followed him, looking incredulous. ' _HE's_ brilliant? Bond? You can't be serious. _Him_?' John laughed as he began rinsing the plates. 'Don't get jealous now. I still think you're the bravest and most brilliant man I've ever known.' He dried his hands, and turned to find Sherlock standing a little closer than he expected. His chest thumped a bit. 'Do you, John?' Sherlock's voice was deeper and softer than usual. John felt his face growing warm. The way Sherlock was looking at him, talking to him. John wasn't sure what he was feeling, but it was uncomfortable and fantastic, simultaneously. '''Course I do.', he said quietly. They stood that way, just looking at each other, barely breathing. John finally cleared his throat and looked down, 'I think I'll take a shower, and head to bed.'  
  
While he showered, John thought about what just happened. His stomach was in knots. His heart was still beating faster than usual. What _did_ just happen? He was finding it difficult to be honest with himself. He kept replaying the kitchen scene over and over. Sherlock was standing too close to him. Sherlock was staring at him. Sherlock was... flirting with him? And John, being completely honest, well, he loved it.


	8. Pressure point

While John showered, Sherlock stood in the kitchen for what felt like an eternity. This had happened so many times before, Sherlock invading John’s personal space. Earlier today, he had dared put his cheek on John's hand in an extremely vulnerable moment. But this evening was different. This evening, in the kitchen he could see that he made John uncomfortable. And Sherlock knew that was the last thing John needed right now. He felt like a selfish prick. The thing was, Sherlock never could help himself when it came to John.  

Sherlock conceded, John was his pressure point. But no one could ever convince him he would be stronger without John. They were a team, a unit. John didn't make Sherlock feel weak, he made him feel stronger than he had ever felt before. John had saved Sherlock in so many ways. Since meeting him, Sherlock found himself being more emotionally open to others, like Molly and occasionally even Mycroft. This was a bravery, a confidence, that Sherlock had never had. John inspired him to be better than he was. No one had ever been able to pull Sherlock out of the deepest cells of his mind before. But John did that easily. Just the thought of John literally brought Sherlock back to life. In Sherlock’s mind palace, John was there to save him when his darkest thoughts and manifestations would consume him. An ever-present comfort. His other half. His _better_ half.

Sherlock heard the shower turn off, and it pulled him out of his daze. He quietly made his way to his desk, and opened his laptop. He started searching for more information on John’s leukemia. The better armed with knowledge he could be, the better off John would be.  

John got into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and hung up his towel. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and came out to find Sherlock on the laptop again. He could tell by Sherlock's level of concentration, it would probably be an all-nighter. 'G'night, Sherlock.' Sherlock looked up at him with a small smile, and kind eyes. 'Goodnight, John. Welcome home.'


	9. Always you

It was odd, going into this room. Sherlock was usually quite protective of it. John had only been in here a few times, briefly. Sherlock's bed was bigger, nicer. The narrow stairway leading to John’s room only left so many options available for a bed. Sherlock had set John's watch and phone on the bedside table. He had also set out his medicines. John looked at the bottles, thoughtfully. He hated taking medicine, but he was just going to have to get over it. He had taken the first dose of chemo today. He would take the next dose in the morning. There was also a bottle of morphine tablets. John normally wouldn’t take pain medicine, but his thigh was very sore at this point, and he knew it would help him sleep. He popped one of the tablets into his mouth, and swallowed the entire glass of water. He shut off the light, and got into bed. Sherlock's bed. He lay his head on the pillow and pulled up the duvet. Sherlock’s duvet. He realized he was now completely surrounded by the scent of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
As John lay in Sherlock's bed, surrounded by Sherlock's scent, with his mind growing increasingly fuzzy from the morphine, he thought of Sherlock standing too close. It had happened before. Many times, in fact. Hell, they had practiced dancing together. But tonight was different. Tonight, John had finally admitted to himself that he enjoyed being that close to Sherlock. He thought back to his hospital dream. The dream that had turned into a nightmare when Sherlock became Mary. John sighed. Slowly, he began unraveling a very tightly-wound ball of repressed thoughts. 

When John thought Sherlock was... gone, he had allowed Mary to comfort him, to make him smile. He did love her. But something was missing. He was never truly happy, truly satisfied with their life together. He knew it, and she knew it. They were happy enough, and John didn't want to be alone. When Sherlock returned, John was happy he was alive, of course. But after spending two full years wishing Sherlock would come back, John hardly even saw him at all. It was horrible. John missed being with him, living with him. It was all he could think about. But what was he supposed to do? Leave Mary? Move back in with Sherlock? How could he possibly explain that to either of them? And, regardless of how John felt, Sherlock, well, he didn't 'do' relationships. Sherlock was married to his work. John decided that marrying Mary was best for everyone. Mary would be happy, Sherlock would be happy for them and could focus more on his work, and John... John would be happy if they were happy.

It was during the best man speech at his wedding, in front of a room full of people, that John first learned of Sherlock’s feelings. Sherlock told them the only other person in all the world who loved John as much as Mary did, was him. Sherlock said he would spend his life proving that he would never let John down. That John was the bravest, kindest, and wisest human being he had ever known. Sherlock told everyone that John was the most interesting thing about the cases. And then, in the middle of everything, he had actually pointed at John, smiled and said, ‘ _It’s always you, John Watson_.’ John felt like his heart had stopped in that moment. Maybe none of this should have been shocking to him, but it was. Not long before the wedding, when John had informed Sherlock that he was his best friend, and one of two people he loved most in the world, Sherlock had been equally shocked. He never said he felt the same. Christ, they were terrible with feelings.

Later that evening, after the dancing started, John had seen a deep sadness in Sherlock's eyes. The same sadness that John had also been fighting since the speech. ‘The end of an era’, everyone kept saying. No. No, it wasn’t that. It was a sadder, more desolate feeling than that. It was hard to find the right words. John felt as though he was losing a part of himself. 

And now, in the front room of Baker Street, Sherlock began to play his violin softly.

John felt his eyes begin to well. ' _I_ _t's_ _always you, Sherlock Holmes_.' Sherlock was the missing piece, the key to John’s true happiness.

John pulled the duvet to his face, and he began to sob. All the sorrow he had refused to let himself feel, he let it out now.


	10. Understanding

John heard the door crack. It swung open slowly in the darkness, and Sherlock came around. 'John?' John tried to compose himself. He sniffled, and wiped his eyes, ‘Oh God.’, he muttered to himself, embarrassed. 'John, you alright?' Sherlock came closer to the bed. John sat up against the headboard a bit. ‘I’m fine Sherlock, I’m fine.’ But Sherlock had heard it from the front room. He had never heard John cry before. 

'John’, he began carefully, ‘I know this is an adjustment, being here again. And this _bloody_ disease.' Tears welled up in John's eyes again, he couldn't help it. His voice cracked as he spoke, 'Sherlock, I'm _happy_ to be here. Understand? My flat with Mary never felt like home. Not once. And I don't fear the cancer.' John knew he had to explain himself, but he didn't know if he was ready to do that. 

'Oh. I see.', Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, and looked down at his hands, 'I’m… I’m sorry John. About earlier.' John's hand wrapped gently around Sherlock's wrist. 'No, Sherlock. It's not that.', he took a breath, 'I was thinking about some things that are very difficult for me. The wedding.' The left side of Sherlock's face was partially illuminated by light coming through the window. John could see the sadness. 'I know the divorce was hard for you, John. It must pain you to think of the wedding.'  John realized he hadn't let go of Sherlock's wrist. He wasn't intending to. 'Not because of Mary.', John said quietly. Sherlock paused. 'I don't understand.' 

John sighed loudly. 'God, why the hell is this so difficult?' He paused for a deep breath. 'Sherlock, why did you leave the wedding early?' Sherlock sat in silence a while. 'I didn't want to spoil your moment... your happiness. You deserve to be happy.', he said softly. John gripped his wrist a little tighter. 'Sherlock, I'm only truly happy when I'm with you.' And there it was.

John's mouth went dry, his heart was pounding. They sat together, in a long and heavy silence. Finally, Sherlock placed his hand over John's, and squeezed. 'I understand completely, John.' He got up, and walked away. John felt his stomach turn. But instead of walking out the door, Sherlock closed it. Then he slowly crawled in the bed next to John. He lay on his back, in silence. John had never felt so much tension in his life. After a while, Sherlock reached down, took John's hand, and placed it on his chest. He put his hand over John's, and just held it there. They stayed like that for hours, hand over hand, feeling Sherlock's heart beating. They were finally home. 


End file.
